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Pas des Deux






Pas des Deux


 

Her days recorded by the loads of bleached sheets blowing in the wind, chopped apples and

beef stews and how many times she has wiped her hands on stained aprons or furrowed

brows. She has birthed the children that now determine societal rules of what is “chic” - what

is “passer.” Her mind is full of the ballet she never danced, the Sonata's she never heard, the

pearls she never wore.

 

She mends the socks with pin-pricked fingers, by the light of the too dim lamp and fills kettles

of water to make the tea, the broths, the scouring water. Her husband's deep sighs tell her of

his day. She brushes out her hair and counts the strokes, doing so languidly; her only time of

solace.  Her mind is full and brimming with words she never spoke, never wrote, never read;

never will.

 

“The dancers are in perfect formation, bras Au repros, stage lights in little beams of

radiance upon them; while the poetry of the motion takes flight, fluttering like the

wings of a swan. For the moment, she is there among them; alive in the music, the

fluidity of body; a sonnet unto itself. The cello's moan their choruses, the violin's

haunting vibrato and the dancers are alive, like leaves caught in a whirlwind.”

 

A light streams in through frosted glass and worn lace curtains, introducing her to another

day, not welcoming, just announcing that she is alive one more day. There on the hook is her

house dress with the faded daisies, the tatted collar, as familiar to her as her skin; without

fanfare is dropped over her head. She will dance with her mop; she will scrub with artist’s f
 
fingers until they are red and chaffed.

 

Like the sculptor, hands wrist-deep in clay, she kneads the dough for dinner, and with her

painter's brush, she will butter their tops in gentle strokes. She lifts the old iron and with her

spit, hears its sizzle that it is hot enough to make perfect pleats and beautiful creases where

cuffs and collars meet sleeve. She is Picasso, she is Rembrandt, she is Monet, she is woman

in form, artist in mind.

 

“They are tuning, bass, cellos, string section, flutes and woodwinds, a cacophony of

noise, yet beautiful. The conductor stands, takes his place, taps his baton three times

and the sound of heaven erupts. She feels it thunder in her chest and the sound

resonates within her. She is seated among them, her arms furiously working the bow,

head bent as if listening to her lover's words.”

 

She is looking at her hands, like tissue paper that had been bunched into a ball and again

unfolded. They look foreign to her yet as familiar as her mothers were. Ah, the time has finally

arrived, the day she takes leave. There are murmurs of sadness around her bed but she is

oddly at peace as she looks to each of them, sees their sorrow, their fear; their relief.  She closes
 
her eyes and suddenly she is music.

                                                                    

Every blade of grass she has felt beneath her feet is a part of her, every bird she heard sing is

singing for her, children’s laughter is her laughter, every tear she has wiped is her tear and

every caress, touch, every word of love is there in her heart. Her life is complete; her time

now is depleted, with no thoughts of regret. Duality has been kind.  She travelled never, but

has been everywhere inside her.

 

“The audience is up on their feet; thunderous applause fills the hall. She takes centre

stage in Pas de Marche. She curtsies and welcomes the bouquets being thrown at her

feet. She curtsies again and in glissade, exits the stage. The orchestra plays its final

refrain. The stage lights dim as the Madame’s est Monsieur file out quietly with

whispers of awe, of wonder upon their lips.”

 
Brenda-Lee Ranta
 

 

Brenda-Lee Ranta resides in northern Ontario, Canada.

She shares her journey with her life partner who is a drummer, lyricist and recently published poet. She is the mother of three children, two step-children and three grand-children.

She is employed with her local police service, enjoys writing songs with her partner, singing, reading, doing yoga and meditating, but spends the majority of her free time writing.

Inspired by the great poets, she credits song writers and lyricists for her love of the fluidity of words. She has been greatly influenced by the raw, honest poetry and lyrics of the late, Leonard Cohen.

A writer for over 51 years of her life, she has two poetry books published with CTU Publishing Group, “Myriad of Perceptions and Allegories – a Thirst for Connection.” Both books attained a five-star rating with Reader’s Favorite.  She also has poetry published in three poetry Anthologies by Creative Talents Unleashed. 

Brenda also enjoys writing short prose stories.   She is presently working on her first novel.

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